


An ASSortment of Appreciative Oglings

by AnnaBolena



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Ben's ass is a delight, Caleb gets J.E.A.L.O.U.S., M/M, Oblivious gay revolutionaries, a bit of crack admittedly, and the whole camp appreciates those pants i'm sure, because probably ppl weren't so openly appreciative, watcha gonna do about it Gayleb?, work with me here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 06:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15768672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: "There’s no harm in looking, is there?" Ben glances at him briefly. "Don’t you ever look?""Only to check it’s still there," Caleb insists, lying and thinking perhaps he’ll say an exceptional prayer tonight for how gravely he just perjured himself."Where else would it possibly be?" Ben laughs.a.k.a. Tallboy has a gr8 ass, m8, and Caleb wants it for himself.





	An ASSortment of Appreciative Oglings

**Author's Note:**

> See if you can keep count of how many times I throw a word containing 'ass' in there, just for shits and giggles.
> 
> Way back in April someone requested jealous Caleb, et voilá, I deliver with a delay.

It is not every day Caleb is treated to such beauty, and he makes sure to savor it on the days some higher being decides to take pity on his poor soul and bestow on him the gift that is Benjamin Tallmadge after a promotion to leader of a group of Dragoons.

Caleb lets out a slow whistle of appreciation when the newly made Captain leaves his tent done up in blue and gold. The uniform is finely tailored and spotless, probably softer than anything Caleb has ever worn. And it suits him, the way his hair is now pulled back with a black bow. The continental blue brings out his eyes incredibly, even if the helmet is perhaps a bit too much. Caleb certainly prefers the sight of his strands bared, to reflect the sunlight in optimal moments of perfectly angled beams being redirected as they seek to hit the earth.

Ben, for his part, mumbles something that sounds awfully close to "shut up", swiftly followed by a string of colorful cuss words Reverend Tallmadge would have spanked his boy for as a child as he wrestles the helmet off and maneuvers it beneath his arm where it remains, proudly perched, a tangible testament to Ben's utter dedication to the effort made on behalf of their independence. 

"Alright, Tallboy, give us a spin, why don't ya?" Caleb laughs, demonstrating with his finger. Ben raises one eyebrow and clamps his mouth shut, deeply embarrassed and showing it in reddened cheeks. Caleb doesn’t miss the pride in his eyes though. He worked hard for this promotion. He surely deserves it.

When he reluctantly and somewhat half-heartedly complies with Caleb’s request it makes the both of them laugh. Caleb thinks it might be the first laugh he has heard out of him since Samuel was lost in battle, spirited away to locations and status unknown. Abruptly, Caleb’s laughter dies in his throat when he catches a glimpse of Ben’s backside.

"Looks like they gave you about three sizes too small there, Ben," is how he ends up voicing his concern instead of the various expletives that initially form on his tongue. Swallowing the words back down is tough, but Caleb, impossible to break, even through torture, manages.

"Admittedly these are a little tight," Ben agrees, shaking his legs out (and oh, heaven have mercy on him, he can see every slight twitch beneath the dyed fabric,) "They promised me proper sizes within a fortnight."

"A fortnight? Christ, that knob Scott really wants to get a good look at your arse." Caleb has recovered admirably and is back to jokes.

"Is it really that obviously on display?" Ben wonders, trying to look at it over his shoulder, but his vision is obscured by the new blue coat.

"Well, I’ll have to get a closer look, won’t I?" Caleb clears his throat, stepping closer. Sweaty hands pretend to want to bend Ben over, who shoves him away a little too roughly and gives him a severe look. Usually he is merely the recipient of one of those after he spends too much time away from camp for Ben not to begin worrying like an old crone. In such cases he'll loudly and dramatically proclaim himself touched by Ben's matronly concern, while hiding precisely how warm such care for his safety and physical integrity truly leave him. Ah, if all men could feel such warmth in their hearts, Caleb wagers Valley Forge would have but little issues keeping the icy cold that threatens to take young lives every night at bay. 

"Don’t worry your pretty little head about it Tallboy." Caleb pacifies, hands in the air to convey peace he does not feel. Inside of him, a storm is brewing. Normally, Caleb is indiscriminate in ranking any type of brew, but storms never bode well, the second lesson he learned when he boarded a whaleboat at nineteen. The first was that the sea was a place removed from the laws of men and god both.

"Just don’t face away from the old bastard or he’ll pounce." That jab earns him a swat in his direction from a very flustered Ben.

"Shut up," he repeats, impossibly even more severe in tone than just seconds before.

"I can see it now," Caleb is on a roll, looking off into the distance as if it holds the answers to the future. "Soon I’ll be selling tickets at a stunning profit for everyone to feast their eyes on Benny-boy Tallmadge’s bulging buttocks."

He gives Ben a little nudge as they make their way through camp. Ben casts his eyes on him with blatant rebuke shining clearly amongst the blue of them, but Caleb is certain that, for whatever reason, he spots a smile in there as well.

+

It turns out Caleb wasn’t too far off with his entrepreneurial foresight.

The first time he notices someone admire the _craftsmanship_ of Benny’s pants he almost misses it because he is equally distracted by the sheer spectacle of them. It’s a young Corporal, barely out of boyhood. But by the firelight his eyes are glued to the way Ben moves from one leg onto the other as he discusses plans for the following day of scouting with General Scott. The boy is a fool and Caleb will not sit idly by while he walks himself into a noose with the sheer _unabashedness_ of his observation.

He claps the boy on the shoulder and gives him a meaningful look. At first it looks as though the boy is about to stammer out some excuse or other that Caleb would in turn have to discount with another heavy and reproachful look. In the end he just clears his throat and keeps his eyes down from there on out, suitably chastised. Caleb feels better and tells himself that it is because he did a good thing in teaching that boy how to be discreet.

It becomes a common occurrence, the feeling that their conversations are followed more closely as they stand chatting in camp, Ben always shifting his stance to test the variability of the ways his pants can stretch. The number stretches ad infinitum, it seems, and Ben will not rest until he has attempted to assuage if infinity could indeed ever be reached.  Eyes on them as they pass are nothing new as Ben is a very noticeable person and would therefore more likely make a terrible spy in the field – people remember his face too easily – but now the many eyes that trail him linger below his coat, usually. Ben does not seem to notice. How can Ben not notice?

The second time Caleb notices particular attention paid to Ben he doesn’t interfere, although he desperately wants to. It’s late at night and they’re sitting around a bonfire with a freshly-made major of Charles Lee’s regiment who graciously offered them free alcohol. Due to the difference in rank and their similar age, standard intimidation would not work even if he tried. Caleb can’t for the life of him remember the name correctly. Budford? Buford?

"Oi, Bradford," Ben motions for the bottle. Apparently he has no such slips of memory. "Got any more?"

 _Bradford_ motions behind Ben, indicating towards one of the casks. Ben stands up and turns around and Caleb swears he can see Bradford’s eyes glint predatorily. Like a wolf in the forest, stalking the innocent little deer, or Ben, in this scenario. Then Ben bends over to re-fill his cup and the sodding bastard actually licks his lips. The fire reflects in his brown eyes and altogether Caleb doesn’t trust himself not to split him with his hatchet, so instead he embeds it in the cask of Madeira when Ben asks.

A precise hit even in the dark and inebriated. Some of his finer work. Caleb works best with incentive, with spoils to be had. 

It’s impressive, is what it is. There are claps on his back, a stray mutter of someone saying ‘I couldn’t have done that’, and Caleb grins.

If he looks at Bradford afterwards, a little heavy on the indicative side, well then that’s just pure coincidence and can nary be assigned any meaning.

Unfortunately it seems Major Bradford does not know what is good for him, not like the young Corporal. Ben, of course, is painfully unaware of the stares he receives. Weeks pass and the promised garments do not arrive to alleviate Caleb’s worry. At this rate he will find himself merrily walking into an early grave trying to glare at everyone who makes their staring too improperly obvious.

Protecting Benjamin’s innocence will be the death of him. Everyone stares at him.

+

 

When Ben is in turn made Major to be afforded the opportunity to better lead their intelligence ring, he’s pretty certain he even catches their Commander-In-Chief sneak a glance every now and then. General Washington wears a mask made of impenetrable marble on his face, hardened and roughened by the hardships of winters past on the brink of their army falling into absolute dissolution. And yet, Caleb sees a slightly pink tinge form on his cheeks which can neither be ascribed to the cold raging outside Headquarters, as they are safely inside, nor the warmth, as he is adequately far enough removed from the cackling fireplace, whenever his perceptive eyes return from apprising Benjamin. 

"Didn’t they promise you better pants?" Caleb asks Ben one night as they practice throwing his hatchet. The coldest days offer some reprieve for Caleb as Ben dons a large black cloak which obscures his backside, but now as Winter has begun to bleed into Spring, he foregoes the cloak more often than he surrounds himself with it. Spring is the season for fighting, Caleb supposes. It is only fitting that not all his battles will be with enemies bearing red. 

"They did. They came weeks ago. Unfortunately they were unbearably uncomfortable and made alimentation by a family of presumably starving mice."

"Can you even move in those pants you got on right now, Major?"

"You seem to spend a disproportionate amount of thought on my pants, Brewster. I imagine we’d have already repelled the redcoats if you devoted half as much time to coming up with the raid strategies I have taken to beg off you with increasing sternness." Ben shakes his head as he hits the target a little off-center, issuing a stern rebuke. If only the good Major knew, Caleb thinks sardonically.

"Bradford’s not exactly been subtle, you know?"

" _Bradford_?" Ben repeats, utterly confused by what he perceives to be an abrupt change of subject.

"You’ve given him first row seating a few times now. Let’s just say I think he’s a touch too appreciative of your finest asset."

"Careful Caleb, that sounds like jealousy," Ben teases, eyes trained on the target as he lines up for another throw.

"Jealous?" Caleb laughs, clapping Ben on the shoulder. "Concerned, more like," he corrects.

"There’s no harm in looking, is there?" Ben glances at him briefly. "Don’t you ever look?"

"Only to check it’s still there," Caleb insists, lying and thinking perhaps he’ll say an exceptional prayer tonight for how gravely he just perjured himself.

"Where else would it possibly be?" Ben laughs.

"Oh, I dunno. Bradford might grab it and run away with it," the whaler teases, pinching Ben right into one exquisitely-carved cheek. It makes Tallmadge miss the target altogether. "Looks like I win, Tallboy," Caleb declares gleefully before he runs off to retrieve the weapon.

+

Benedict Arnold is carted into camp after his victory at Saratoga and promptly stops short when Ben, gallantly helping him alight his makeshift carriage, squats down to pick up the cane that fell into the mud. Eyes set in a forehead dampened by effort and exertion trail down and the subsequent rise of eyebrows and controlled set of his mouth that Caleb would bet has nothing to do with a sudden ague of pain or dizziness leaves him feeling unreasonably angry.

Here stands a General, acclaimed and injured in what turned out to be one of their most decisive battles, and he has nothing better to do than stare at a Major’s arse. It is disgraceful, Caleb thinks, and then relents and concedes that Benjamin’s pants do, in fact, sit particularly nicely today. Still, Caleb begins to wonder how best to dissuade the General from requesting Benjamin as his aide-de-camp, or a position equally ludicrous.

+

The last straw is when they’re interrogating a prisoner, and as Ben turns around to consider the new knowledge gathered Caleb catches the redcoat’s face contort into one of familiar appreciation.

Not bothering with subtlety, Caleb clears his throat. Caught but ultimately unashamed the prisoner has the absolute verve and audacity to shrug, as if helpless to resist the temptation unfolding in front of him. And what does it matter if Caleb appreciates that someone seems to share his plight just a little bit? The man is the enemy, and this cannot be tolerated. He has had it up to here. If he cannot secure the safety of such an important asset by way of keeping it isolated, he must bring it into the possession of someone up to the task of keeping it.

"A word, major?" Caleb begs, fingers twitching behind his back as Ben turns to regard both him and the prisoner. Then he nods to the two Dragoons he has deputized to keep guard and leaves them to their assignation. He leads Ben a bit into the woods, making sure to avoid the sentries they’ve got stationed around camp. Grass, frozen by the turning tide of winter, crunches beneath his boots as he searches for a place to stop, even as he still tries to figure out what he actually plans on saying.  

"I forgot my cloak, so do let us make this quick. I should hate not to be able to reassume the interrogation before the morning."

Caleb can see Ben’s breath in the air as he exhales and is, for a moment, lost for words.

"He was staring at your behind, the redcoat," Caleb blurts out, making a massacre of eloquence. Ah, praise the good man in the sky that he has never had to be a wordsmith to get by in life. 

Ben quirks his lip, a mocking smile, the full effect only hampered minutely by the darkness which encloses them. "This preoccupation of yours with my backside is an interesting phenomenon indeed."

"If you call concern interesting, then yeah, it is very interesting," Caleb wears assertiveness like a cloak of his own.

"Oh, Caleb," Ben sighs, "You need not harass the men you assume will assault me. I have no desire for them."

"No?" Caleb laughs and folds his arms across his chest.

"They stare, and as I have said, there is no harm in staring. Eyes wander all the time. Mine certainly do."

"And where do they wander to?" Caleb questions, challengingly. He wouldn't exactly call himself a foolish man, though he is the type to rush into situations head-first if he feels like he's got a shot at coming out on top. This curiosity spilling out of him feels eerily like running into a waiting bayonet, like offering himself as a sacrifice to the blades of British soldiers. No answer Ben could make would be acceptable, he thinks. 

"Predominantly your beard, and the many acts I associate with it," Ben grins.

Perhaps, Caleb reevaluates generously, he was hasty with his assumptions. How delightful it is to count oneself close to death, only to be pulled out of its cruel claws by a vision in blue and gold and words dripping from a tongue laden with implication to soothe the sting such a grasp left behind. 

"Do tell?" Caleb, buoyed by the sudden turn this conversation has taken, finds new confidence. Ah, to flirt with death by embarrassment, it is exhilarating. 

"Mostly I imagine you on your knees - it matters not whether you pay attentions to my front or my behind."

Benjamin, evidently noticing that Caleb is rapt and frozen in place, steps closer until their breath mingles.

"Not what you were expecting, perhaps?"

"I had no idea you could be so crass, Tallboy," Caleb admits, gearing up to tease him some more when Ben promptly decides to take matters (matters, in this case, referring to Caleb’s cock through the cloth of his well-worn, somewhat ill-fitting pants) into his own hands, rousing it to attention a little clumsily. The cold does little to produce smooth movements, and altogether both men shiver, but Jesus Christ does it feel good. Caleb thrusts into Ben's hand, rubs himself against it with abandon for a while. He seeks his own end selfishly at first, as he frequently does on solitary nights. 

But no, this is not what Ben described as the consequence of his imaginings, and so Caleb removes the Major's eager hand by dropping to his knees. There is a little snow yet, and it will undoubtedly drench his fabric soon enough to leave him shivering before long, but this is important. And so, with fingers trembling not merely because of the drop in temperature, he peels out a small space in which the length of Ben is bared to him. The cold has kept Ben's response tempered, as of yet, but Caleb pledges himself to the good cause of effecting change upon that as he takes him down into his mouth. 

"Dare I propose-" Ben stops short when Caleb applies suction on him, trembling hands now seeking to apply pressure on his behind to better take him in fully, instead opting to stifle his moan against his own fist. The other one reaches, grasps for Caleb's hair and holds on for dear life. Caleb delights in producing such sounds, but even as Ben, eager that he is, begins to thrust shallowly into his begging mouth, Caleb feels that there are words yet to be had, and so he pops off the man's cock, careful to keep up the friction with hands warmed against his behind, lest all his efforts to keeping Ben's blood flowing hot go to waste. 

"Fortune favors the brave, I have been told, so dare, if you would, though usually I have to put in more work until someone offers to make an honest man out of me."

"Shut up. I meant to propose moving this endeavor to the slightly less cold confines of our shared tent," Ben’s teeth chatter only a little as he speaks. He moves the hand entangled in Caleb's curls to his cheek, looking down at him with a gentle but by no means innocent smile. Upon his lips remains, tantalizingly, the promise of reciprocation to be had, the seeking of mutual pleasure that Caleb also longs for. 

"There certainly are points in the tent’s favor," Caleb pretends to think about it.

"Indeed. For example, our tent has blankets."

"We also do not run the risk of being mistaken as trespassers and shot in the middle of the night," Caleb adds, "I concede you make a good case, Major Tallmadge. Lead the way."

"Is there a particular reason you’d prefer me to walk in front of you?" Ben grins as he helps Caleb return onto his feet before tucking himself back into his pants, too tight not to show a very indicative outline of his present state of debauchery. Caleb's eyes track the movement and Ben's index finger comes quickly out of the unknown to tilt Caleb's chin upwards, so that their eyes may meet again in the little light the moon gives off tonight. Ben licks his lips, and then swiftly presses a soft kiss, comparatively chaste to what they have just done and what they have yet planned, but all the more sweet for it, to Caleb's lips. Once more Caleb is warmed. 

"It is too dark to see you clearly on the path, but rest assured I will be taking care to closely inspect what you present to me," Caleb breathes into the small space allotted between them. Ben laughs, and kisses him once more. This time his lips are firmer, more demanding, beginning an exploration of their own and rife with delicious sensations. 

Caleb thinks that perhaps it will no longer tear him apart so much, to watch eyes track Ben, when he is so assured of knowing the Major to be in good hands. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback leaves me feeling warm. c:


End file.
